


Ten Questions

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Drinking Games, Drunken Confessions, Fireplaces, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Games, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sherlock's Birthday, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 16:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17328506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: It's Sherlock's birthday and John has brought home chocolate cake, red wine, and a question game to celebrate. Ten drunken questions reveal much more than either expected (or ever hoped for).Written in honor of Sherlock Holmes' January 6 birthday and the Sherlock Challenge prompt "10"





	Ten Questions

Two plates littered with crumbs of chocolate cake are set haphazardly on the side table next to John’s chair. A fire is burning low in the grate and Sherlock has opened the evening’s second bottle of wine, now almost gone. Both he and John are a bit drunk, in stocking feet, sunk into their chairs pulled close to the fire, knees poking out at odd angles.

“Now then,” John says, producing his phone from his pocket with a flourish. “It wouldn’t be a proper celebration without some games.”

Sherlock waves his hand loosely from the wrist. “Really, John, that’s not necessary.”

“C’mon, it’s your birthday.” He taps thick-fingered at the screen. “I downloaded this app. It’s like, you know, a question game.”

“An interrogation. How delightful.”

“No, no, they’re more like get-to-know-you type of questions.”

“But you already know me.”

John shoots him an exasperated look. “They’re random questions. It’s supposed to be fun.” He focuses on the screen. “Like this one: Are you a dog or a cat person?”

“Dog. Although I don’t particularly object to cats.” Sherlock takes a drink. “But I don’t care for birds. Too… fluttery.” He waggles his fingers with a distasteful motion.

“See? I didn’t know that. Here’s the next one: What is your dream job?”

Sherlock snorts. “Consulting detective, obviously.”

“Right. Too easy. How about this: What’s your biggest pet peeve?”

Sherlock thinks, then breaks into a malicious grin. “Philip Anderson.”

This time John snort-laughs as he takes a drink. “He _is_ a prick. But I thought you’d say Mycroft.”

“Oh, him too,” Sherlock agrees. “Total prick.”

“Okay, next question,” John squints at his phone. “You’re at a candle shop; what scent of candle do you buy?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the stupidity of the question but John cuts off any protest. “Just answer it.”

“Fine.” Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin and closes his eyes. “Candle shop… candle shop…”

John waits, content to watch the shadows flicker over Sherlock’s face and neck, his burgundy dressing gown thrown over a dove grey shirt, the top two buttons undone.

John had brought home the cake and wine as a surprise, knowing that Sherlock would ignore or even forget his own birthday unless confronted directly. He’d lifted an intrigued eyebrow at the sight of the pink bakery box and nodded approvingly at the wine selection, allowing John to lure him away from the microscope for an impromptu fête.

It’s little moments like these that John cherishes, being with Sherlock when they’re relaxed and at ease, a sense of playfulness in the air. John can’t think of anyone else he’s ever felt so close to in quite this way. And yet…

And yet there’s a wall between them, a line he’s terrified to cross. Beyond that line is a quagmire of emotions and desires that he’s afraid will drown him. It would frighten Sherlock away if he ever got close enough to peer into John’s eyes and see the truth.

So he will gaze at Sherlock from his chair, content with the fire on this cold January night, content with the current boundaries of their relationship, which is enough to live on.

Sherlock’s eyes snap open. John feels exposed, hoping his thoughts aren’t written all over his face. He clears his throat and deflects back to the game. “Well, what scent of candle would you choose?”

Sherlock’s fingers are still propped under his chin. “Honey and lavender.”

“Really?” John’s brows go up in surprise. He was expecting something dark and mysterious like patchouli.

“It reminds me of my grandmother’s cottage. We used to visit her in the summer when I was a boy. She kept flowers and bees.”

John smiles, delighted at the image of a young Sherlock running about his grandmother’s gardens, digging in the dirt and studying rocks and plants. “That’s lovely.”

Sherlock’s soft expression crosses into annoyed embarrassment, as if he’s revealed too much. He snatches the phone from John’s hand. “Give me that. Your turn.” He scrolls to the next question, his mouth curving up with a touch of evil. His eyes lock with John’s. “What is your middle name?”

John’s stomach drops. God, he hates his middle name. He hides his face in his palms and groans. “Pass.”

“Nope. No passing.”

John groans again.

Sherlock smiles as John squirms in his chair. How is it that he doesn’t know John’s middle name? He knows his laptop password, his slight fluctuations in weight, how he folds his shirts and takes his coffee…

Somehow John’s life has become intertwined with his own in so many little ways that he can’t imagine going through a day without him. The clicking of John’s keyboard, the sound of his shower running, his skeptical looks or gushes of praise, his knitted jumpers, the glint of his gun, his courage and dry humor… his thoughtfulness in bringing him his favorite cake tonight. He wouldn’t want to be with anyone else on his birthday. He wouldn’t want to live with anyone else. If only he could tell him.

John sighs, giving in. “Hamish,” he mumbles.

“Hamish?” Sherlock repeats loudly, amused. “John _Hamish_ Watson.”

“Stop. I hate it.”

“Oh, I quite like it,” Sherlock grins, deciding that John has suffered enough. “Moving on.” He consults the phone again. His eyes widen. “Do you have any tattoos?”

Again, Sherlock realizes he doesn’t already know the answer. He’s seen portions of John’s bare arms and legs, a flash of chest at the vee of his dressing gown, a strip of skin at his waist when he bends down or reaches up, but nothing more. Not the most private parts of his body.

John moans again. “Jesus, why don’t I get the dog questions?”

“Do you?” Sherlock prompts, leaning forward. “Have a tattoo?”

John meets his stare, disgruntled and defeated. “Yes.”

Sherlock’s skin prickles with interest. “What is it?” He licks his lips. “Where is it?”

John shifts in his seat, dying inside. “A smiley face. On my left arse cheek.”

Sherlock nearly falls out of his chair.

“I was drunk, really drunk, and lost a bet,” John rushes to explain. “I was at university, young and stupid. Really stupid. I couldn’t sit down for a week.”

The laugh bubbles up deep from Sherlock’s chest, so rich and low and genuine that John can’t help but smile and giggle in return. Sherlock can’t even speak, his eyes teary with mirth. He adores this nugget of unexpected knowledge about John, finding it silly and somehow subversively sexy, the image of a vapid smiley face flexing with the tightening and relaxation of John’s _gluteus maximus_.

John grabs the phone back, their fingers tangling for a moment. “Enough about me.”

Sherlock slides deeper into his chair, his knees bumping comfortably into John’s. He tries to regain his composure, getting ready for the next question.

John’s expression turns more serious. “Do you have any regrets?”

John glances up, catching the way the light in Sherlock’s eyes dims. The mood shifts.

“Yes. Many.” Sherlock’s voice is rough. He regrets his weaknesses, his addictions, his inability to share his innermost secrets with the man sitting within reach.

John doesn’t push for details, thinking about his own regrets. He looks down at his phone, deciding to move to the next question. It blindsides him, and he stutters awkwardly. “Oh. This one is — we can skip it.”

“Say it.” Sherlock hopes it’s something light and superfluous that will lift the mood.

John takes a breath, his hand unsteady. “Have you ever been in love?” He dares to glance up, not sure what he will find.

Sherlock freezes, caught off guard. His cheeks flush, the truth heating his blood. John’s eyes are trained on him, his lips parted expectantly. The wine makes Sherlock’s head spin, lubricating the words that slip from his mouth. “Yes. I have.”

John holds his gaze. “With who?”

Sherlock swallows, unable to gather his usual defenses of aloofness or disdain. He’s caught naked, vulnerable, his wits hazey, his emotions seeping through the bars of their locked cage like a mist. “A man. A good man.”

John’s breath hitches, torn between a burst of surprise and jealousy and a thread of hope. Sherlock, admitting that he’s been in love — with a man — causes a small earthquake in John’s heart.

Unable to think, John automatically consults his phone. His mouth is dry as he reads the next question aloud, the room seeming to tilt. “Do you currently have feelings for someone?”

Sherlock drains his wine glass and sets it aside. His gaze slides to the fire, his answer barely audible. “I do.”

John sets down his glass as well and leans forward, wanting to know more.

Sherlock keeps his gaze averted. “I’m not sure he feels the same way.”

“He’d be crazy if he didn’t.” John can’t stop his mouth, his words breathless. “You’re amazing. Brilliant. Gorgeous. My God, he’d be lucky to have you.” He clamps his hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut, kicking himself. Subtle, really subtle, Watson. Rambling like a drunk idiot.

John is surprised again when he feels Sherlock gently sliding the phone from his grip, his head bent near his. Suddenly they are close, so close, legs slotted together, feet touching through wool socks.

“One more question,” Sherlock says, his voice low.

John watches him, uncertain what will happen next.

Sherlock’s eyes flick down, illuminated a beautiful sea blue-green by the screen light. He speaks. “What is something you’ve always wanted to do but were too afraid to?”

Sherlock’s heart is pounding but he staggers ahead, led by his emotions. “I know what my answer is,” he whispers, knowing he’s stealing John’s turn. He doesn’t care, there’s a window open and he’s got to squeeze through it before it’s too late, before he slams it shut himself and seals up the whole room. He has to do it now or never.

John sees the storm in Sherlock’s face and places a hand on Sherlock’s knee, trying to steady them both. “Tell me,” he whispers back.

The phone slips unnoticed onto the chair cushion. Sherlock lifts his gaze to John’s and inhales shakily, causing John to put both hands on Sherlock’s knees. He feels like he’s holding Sherlock down, as if he might float away if he doesn’t tether him to the earth.

Sherlock slowly leans in and spreads his palms over John’s thighs, gripping his fingers into his flesh through his jeans. John’s eyes widen, awestruck, as Sherlock dips his mouth, brushing his lips against his, clinging softy for a moment. John is overwhelmed with the soft heat of Sherlock’s mouth, the tickle of curls against his forehead, the bristle of stubble on his upper lip.

Sherlock fades back, his hands still grasping John’s thighs, his eyes searching John’s face, cautious, fearful.

“Oh… Sherlock…” John breathes his name out, amazed, relieved, utterly gobsmacked, besotted. “Sherlock… I —” John can’t form a proper sentence so he plunges toward Sherlock’s mouth instead, mashing noses and knocking teeth, his thumbs digging into Sherlock’s knees, kissing him back with a resounding _yes yes yes this is what I want, you are who I want, you are who I need more than air itself._

John scoots forward, balanced on the edge of his chair, his hands moving up to cup Sherlock’s face. Although the angle is awkward, their mouths soften, explore, tasting of chocolate and red wine.

John finally pulls back slightly, seeking Sherlock’s gaze. They smile at each other a bit shyly, the reality of the last few minutes sinking in. There was much more to talk about, but not now. Not yet.

“Happy birthday,” John murmurs, caressing Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb.

“I am happy. You make me happy,” Sherlock replies, thinking that he might burst from the flood of sentiment coursing through his veins.

John gathers a few blankets and pillows and spreads them out on the rug in front of the hearth, then pulls Sherlock down next to him. They kiss in the glow of the fire, intoxicated with wine and the newness of each other, anticipating more discoveries, intimate touches and secret places on their skin, hushed sounds in the dark, impassioned whispers and moans, shared confessions.

“John…” Sherlock sighs his name, melting under John’s weight as they sink entangled to the floor, John’s mouth worshiping his neck. He curves a hand over John’s arse, smiling to himself, remembering the tattoo, knowing he’ll see it very, very soon.

 


End file.
